New Reflections (Burnsmithers)

Part Twelve: Experiences

The week leading to the dinner was eventful. They went to the plant one day, and Burns fired a few people; some of the workers had become irresponsible and entirely reckless in the wake of Burns' second sick leave, about which he was understandably angry.

At home, (he hadn't been to his apartment for a while; someone had been taking care of his dog, and then he just brought it to Burns' house) Waylon witnessed Burns gradually become more comfortable with their intimacy, reaching a point where they began to indulge each other further.

Waylon woke most mornings beside Burns, which he thought he would never tire of. They'd lay there in the sheets and blankets before the eventual task of getting up and going to work set upon them, as they delayed the inevitable.

One morning they lay still in the quiet, Burns' head resting against Waylon's chest. "We can go in late," he mused, his eyes closed.

Waylon, his fingers through Burns' hair, was still half asleep himself. "Mm."

"Ah, Waylon..." Burns murmured, "I've forgotten... it's Sunday." He continued, drowsily, "perhaps we can just sleep, then... how does that sound...?"

Waylon gently pulled him closer. Burns started, and Waylon opened his eyes, though his vision was blurred without his glasses. Burns only blinked and closed his eyes again, and soon his soft snores lulled Waylon back to sleep.

They went out a few times together, to restaurants and other public locales. The first time they went out on an actual date, Waylon drove himself and Burns to an Italian restaurant outside of Springfield.
"You do not mind driving? I could have someone take us there," Burns offered before they left. They stood together in Burns' foyer.

"It's okay, I don't mind."

Burns nodded, and his eyes flitted over Waylon, his demeanour genial. "You... er, look rather dapper in that jacket. It brings out your eyes."

Waylon blushed. "You look perfect, as usual."

Burns laughed. "Yes, you would say such."

Waylon could hardly believe they were going out, at last.

At the restaurant, they arrived before the time for which they'd made reservations; Waylon went to the host's desk to resolve the discrepancy. A few passer-by glanced at them as a waiter sat them in the dining room, but none bothered them. Waylon wondered how many of those people had read the article.

The menu had an extensive wine selection; he set it down to ask Burns' opinion. But Burns was occupied, his eyes on something else in the room, his body twisted. He seemed anxious, his brow creased.

"Monty? What are you looking at?"

At his name, Burns turned around and grasped Waylon's hand across the table. "We... should go."

"What? Why? Do you not like the restaurant?"

"No, that is not the issue. Look."

Waylon didn't understand what Burns was referring to at first. But then, ahead of them to the right, at one of the restaurant's many white cloth covered tables, a familiar woman with blond curls was sat with some man. A dull anger coursed through him at the sight of her. Waylon had hoped never to see Eloise again. "What is she doing here?"

"She is on a date, I suppose," Burns muttered, "I pity the man who sits beside her. It's not Alan, hm... I suppose she broke relations with him? Poor bastard."

"We can go somewhere else to eat."

"Post-haste, let's go elsewhere, before she takes notice of us if she hasn't already."